


A Kiss Is Still a Kiss (As Time Goes By)

by viceindustrious



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Fic Exchange, Gangbang, Humiliation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coward wishes he could forget, he'd be better if he could forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss Is Still a Kiss (As Time Goes By)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for yoru_no_envy in the 2nd B/C fic exchange.

Blackwood comes home with blood on his hands.

Whether or not his palms are as clean and his nails as neat as when he left that morning, Blackwood comes home with blood on his hands. Blackwood comes home and each and every time he does, he's a little less human.

The carrion stench of fear has draped itself like a lover across England. The ravens cackle endearments to each other as they grow fat off the flesh of rebels, traitors, conspirators. Stuffing themselves while they can on the dwindling resistance to Blackwood's regime.

Coward had seen them perched on Holmes' strung up corpse, grooming their greasy, black feathers. They went for his eyes first, plucked them out and gobbled them up and from those two gaping pits it felt like he was staring straight at you, no matter where you stood.

These years have been good to scavengers. Good to the men who know how to knock up a gallows on short notice.

If Blackwood's enemies had their way, (but it's heresy to think of it) if Blackwood was ever hung to become food for ravens (heresy and a crime punishable by death to even speak of ill will toward the Sovereign of Britain) Coward doesn't think they could take his eyes. Too hard now, surely, to make sweetmeats for the birds.

Holmes is long gone of course, he belongs to the worms and the past that Coward is learning to bury. To the myth of the Before. Before Coward had finished placing the world at Blackwood's feet, before Blackwood had set to gorging himself on power, before Blackwood had given him the collar around his neck.

There's a hole in Henry Blackwood. Coward understands that now, too late. Black ice over a dead, unfathomable ocean.

At first Coward had been in love with the house that Henry had given him and yes, it had been Henry still back then. It was beautifully appointed, ridiculously grand. Fit for royalty, which was only appropriate as Coward was prince consort in all but title.

 _'For you,'_ Blackwood had told him as they stood in the marble foyer and Coward had laughed and thrown his arms around Henry's neck, allowed himself to be caught and spun. They had christened half the rooms in the place that night.

Now when he paces through his rooms (careful not to worry at his nails, Blackwood will whip him if he finds signs he's started _that_ again) Coward can't see anything that makes it _his_ at all. He finds himself surprised when his bare feet don't leave stains on the carpets.

The house servants watch him almost all the time. Some of them are on orders from Blackwood to do so, he's sure of that and Blackwood's creatures are the most subtle, sly in the way they'll slip into a room to check up on him. But they _all_ watch him. Sometimes he'll catch them staring like jurors (like Holmes, Holmes and his hollow eyes) and he wants to scream.

Sometimes he does scream. His frustrated imagination plays tricks on him, especially in the twilight or early hours of morning. Helpless claustrophobia winds his nerves up until it feels like they may snap. Blackwood does not like him to leave the house. Never by himself. He says it's for Coward's protection.

If he does leave, it must be at the end of Blackwood's leash. _'You're precious to me, Coward,'_ Blackwood says. _'It's for your own good'._  Well, only a madman could argue with that. It's true. Who would dare to damage Blackwood's property?

Of course he needs to be grateful. Coward tries hard to remind himself of this when he looks around at all he has been given, as he gazes at his reflection in the hallway's long, gilded mirror. It's a blessed life, to belong to Henry Blackwood. He has beautiful things, almost anything he wants. Coward's hand will reach out and his fingertips will slide across the cool, smooth surface of the mirror and he will remind himself that he is beautiful too. Would have to be, _must_ be. Blackwood keeps him and he could have anyone.

Does have anyone, anyone he wants, but those boys and girls all end up dead (or worse) in the end and Blackwood still comes home to him.

Today the sore, red bruise of his mouth is beautiful. A mark of how Blackwood had been gracious enough, patient enough to try to teach him to be better.

There's a hole in Coward too, you see. He has watched as Blackwood's humanity has fallen away, flake by flake, but who was the one who helped him begin to shed that skin in the first place? The more Blackwood consumes the hungrier he becomes, but Coward is hungry too.

And Blackwood comes home less and less these days. ( _'Home?' Blackwood sneers at the word, 'how very romantic you are.'_ )

In the beginning there were excuses, there was 'work to be done' or a 'vital matter of diplomacy'. Now Coward is not often afforded the luxury of an excuse and he gets schoolboy giddy when Blackwood thinks ahead to send a lackey with a message that tells him not to bother waiting up.

Last week, after he'd given up hope, Coward had been woken in the small hours to find the mattress dipping beside him. Slow with sleep, he'd turned and blinked his eyes open into the dark to see a solid patch of shadow climbing onto the bed.

He hadn't even the time to whisper, 'my Lord?' before the coverlet was torn from him, thrown to one side and he'd been caught hold of and jerked forward like he was nothing, like he was a doll. Blackwood had still been fully dressed, his shoes tracking dirt onto the sheets, the hot dry tug of his hands the only bare part of him. 

Impossibly quick, like in a nightmare, his wrists had been pinned to the pillows above his head and impossibly quick, like in a dream, Blackwood had been kneeling between his thighs. Blackwood suffocated him with the vicious press of his mouth, a kiss that was all plundering tongue. His eyes made the night seem grey, were darker then the shadows, glinting like razors.

Coward sleeps naked at Blackwood's command and he should have been...been wet at Blackwood's command too, slick and prepared for his Lord's pleasure. Some evenings he can't bear it though, kneeling alone in his room and sliding oiled fingers up into himself and spending the rest of the night trying not to squirm, feeling that ache to be fucked with every movement.

He was lucky Blackwood didn't punish him for it. Instead, he was taken dry and Coward had moaned and tried to press his legs together but they hadn't just been cries of pain, had they? It was intoxicating, _wonderful_ to have all of that strength, that brutal, careless lust focussed just on him. When Blackwood released his wrists to grip his waist, thumbs pressing hard into his hipbones, Coward left his hands where they were. He grabbed hold of the pillow to stop his nails from gouging out the flesh of his palms and crossed his ankles behind Blackwood's back as he was pulled into each thrust.

Blackwood was gone when he woke the next morning. It was only after breakfast, the book he was reading falling forgotten from his hand, that he realized Blackwood hadn't said a single word to him the entire time.

To belong to Henry Blackwood. Coward thinks that love is all about belonging. For you to belong to them, for them to belong to you. The way Henry's hair falls across his forehead after they finish making love, the unquiet sounds he makes in his sleep, the smell of his sweat. All these things belong to him.

 _He hadn't said a word.  
_  
But Coward has learnt not to complain about things like that.

-

"Please, no," Coward says.

His collar, which is usually a pretty little circlet of gold, has been replaced this evening. Blackwood has fastened his neck with a piece of wide, stiff leather that works to keep his head high and proud at all times. It's so base, an animal hide for an animal and it digs into the soft skin under his chin.

"You said you were tired of being shut up all day," Blackwood says.

"My Lord," Coward can hear his voice wavering. "Forgive me."

"Why are you arguing with me?"

Blackwood's tone is deceptively soft, he sounds disappointed. Coward opens his mouth and there are a hundred justifications, a hundred explanations waiting to leap onto his tongue yet he knows he shouldn't give in to a single one of them. His mouth grows dry.

"You know what happens, Coward," Blackwood says. "If you don't learn."

The deception is in how you think he's tender when he talks like this, the velvet in his words makes you think you could plead with him. That it might work. That it might do anything other than damn you further.

Sometimes Coward will see, so very clearly; in a turn of Blackwood's phrase, a certain gesture he makes, the things he taught Henry. Coward was there at the beginning, helping to mold this creature, this god, this _costume_. Oh it wasn't supposed to be real but the lead in that make-up has sunk deep, deep into Henry's skin. This monstrous soul of his that was only waiting for the right person to tend it, feed it, so it could grow strong and mighty and awful.

 _Don't make me lose you_ , Blackwood says to him.

Coward knows it would have been tidier for Blackwood to kill him. He is the only one left who knows the truth about Henry's rise to power. He is the only one who _knows_ Henry at all but he has to forget all that. Blackwood is teaching him how to forget who they both once were so they can be together now, forever.

He nods.

"You need to be reminded of your place, don't you?"

"Yes, my Lord."

-

This club is reserved for only the upper echelons of Blackwood's new society. It's bright and busy, thrumming with wealth and falling on a side of ostentatious that would be _gaudy_ if it weren't for the class of the money behind it.

When they enter, there's a sudden ripple of movement, furtive glances (for no one is foolish enough to stare until they know Blackwood's mood better) and the abrupt clatter of cutlery being hastily set down.

Blackwood has one hand on his shoulder and one of the small of the back, steering him, presenting him and measuring his footsteps for resistance. Coward feels like the girl in the fairy tale, each step pressing knives into his feet, but Blackwood's hands are dangerous things too and Coward doesn't dare hesitate. He would sooner press his back against a red hot iron than dig his heels in here.

Coward could laugh. It doesn't matter that they don't stare. He can feel their eyes crawling on his skin, everywhere.

He has a talent for remembering names. It was a trick that served him well in Parliament, allowed him to always make a good first impression, kept him from misspeaking, always able to choose the right words for the right face. His memory is never more than a curse now and not for the first time, he wishes it away. It would be easier if he could think of these old colleagues as strangers.

Coward is wearing very little indeed, in fact, part of him thinks it might be less shameful to be wearing nothing at all but Blackwood enjoys seeing him in white. Enjoys watching him blush, in white.

He's a picture in coffee and cream, the half transparent ivory of the shirt (a little like a nightshirt, a little like a tunic, a little like something you imagine a virgin would wear before her throat was cut) only comes down to the tops of his thighs. The brown of the leather around his neck is the same shade as the curved, wooden plug that Blackwood  pressed into him before they left. Polished, unyielding mahogany that Blackwood made him lick wet and then fucked in and out of him, slow, until Coward was panting.

The carriage ride had been torturous, every bump forcing another hopeless whine from between his teeth. His hands clenched on his knees, he'd been unable to stop himself from rocking back and forth on the seat until Blackwood rolled his eyes and snapped at him to sit still, to stop being such a distraction.

It's difficult to really look down at himself with the collar around his neck, but Coward can feel the way the shirt catches on his cock. It's a fine sort of chiffon, taken from part of the tribute that China had sent to them. It must be almost completely see through where it's been sliding over the leaking head of his cock.

The maître d hurries over and bows deep at the waist.

"Your excellency," he addresses Blackwood. "And, ah, my Lord Coward."

Coward's face burns.

"How many will you be seating tonight?"

"Just two," Blackwood's deep voice sounds amused as he toys with the hair at the back of Coward's neck.

"Very good, sire."

The maître d begins to lead them across the room, Coward imagines he can see the beads of sweat springing onto his brow as he searches for the best table, but Blackwood stops him. He points to an empty table setting in the middle of the room.

"There," he says.

There's a great chandelier hanging right above it, reflecting light in a thousand glittering fragments. It looks like the inside of Coward's head. Every step he takes makes the plug move inside him. He mustn't clench his fists too hard, he mustn't bite his lip, Blackwood hates it when he puts marks on himself.

He stands, feeling the spotlight acutely, waiting for Blackwood to seat himself before he even touches the other chair. As he begins to pull it out, Blackwood chuckles.

"You _are_ sweet, Coward," he shakes his head. "Still so presumptuous."

"I'm sorry, my Lord?"

Blackwood settles himself comfortably in his chair and Coward is forced to wait, _still_. He feels himself mirrored a hundred times over in the shards of the chandelier, trapped and mirrored again in the eyes of all those around him.

"Do you think I have the time to spare just to humour you?" Blackwood raises an eyebrow and points at the polished wooden floor. "On your knees."

Coward clutches at the back of his- at the back of what he thought was his chair. His nails slide across the wood and bite into his palms. His eyes dart around the room and it's so golden and warm and there are no shadows here, nothing, nothing is hidden from view. It takes a great effort of will for him to coax his hand out of its white knuckled grip and lower himself to the floor.

With his eyes downcast and unfocussed he can let the figures in the room fall into a kind of meaningless pointillism. Even when the man approaches their table, he forces himself not to blink so that all he can see are smudges of colour. The black blur of this unknown's well polished shoes, the navy of his trousers.

But once he hears the voice, his gaze is pulled up like it's caught on a fish hook.

"Good evening, your excellency," Lord Pendry says.

Rupert Pendry, the only other man in the Order who had been around Coward's age and, as Blackwood had commented when he appointed him the new Home Secretary, the most fitting to replace him.

Blackwood extends his hand, gesturing to the other seat and Pendry takes it. Coward swallows and turns his head toward Blackwood but Blackwood merely strokes Coward's hair without sparing him a glance. It's an absent sort of touch, something Blackwood does to please himself.

So Blackwood doesn't look at him, no, but Pendry certainly does. Even while Blackwood is speaking to him there's a perpetual sort of smirk lurking at the edges of his mouth. Kneeling has caused the shirt to ride up high on Coward's thighs and after too many minutes of enduring Pendry's gaze upon him, he tugs it down.

"Don't fidget," Blackwood drawls, giving his hair a sharp tug.

Pendry's eyes light up gleefully, as though this acknowledgement of Coward's existence is all he has been waiting for. Coward watches the hesitant, calculating flash of his eyes toward Blackwood, the way he sucks in his bottom lip.

"We haven't seen much of the Lord Coward recently," Pendry offers.

"Oh, he was commenting on that himself this morning, weren't you, pet?"

It's not a question that requires an answer and Coward is glad of that. He feels more than a little dizzy, Pendry is leering at him and he can't look away. He hadn't meant to complain, he hadn't. It was just those rooms, those _walls_ , the intimacy with which he knew the lines of the skirting boards, the familiar faces in the wallpaper, the same routines every day; taking tea, bathing (he bathes a lot these days, over and over, it's like a compulsion) not being able to talk to the servants of course, not being able to talk to anyone.

Blackwood had asked him what was wrong. But he should know better how to tailor his answers by now.

"You see, Pendry," Blackwood says and his fingers are still rifling through Coward's hair, his touch as mockingly gentle as his tone. "Coward sometimes gets these ideas into his head that he knows best. I'm sure you remember."

Pendry gives a little huff of amusement and Coward closes his eyes. After they'd first come to power Coward had taken a great pleasure in lording his newly exalted position over just about everyone. Henry had found it endearing back then, he remembers (though he wishes he wouldn't, wishes he _couldn't_ remember) how Henry used to laugh at the way he would cut others down and praise him for his wit.

Coward had not been ready for the day when Blackwood, scowling over a map of the colonies, had throw a glass at the wall above his head. Had toppled his chair over and stalked across the room to where Coward had been disagreeing with him, arguing over some small point of policy and then...and then...

Coward imagines the chandelier hanging above them now is made up from the shattered pieces of that same glass, or maybe if you polished them bright enough, the shattered bones of his ribs when Blackwood had finished with him that afternoon.

"I'm sure he doesn't think," Blackwood is saying. "Of all the reasons I need to know where he is."

"How inconsiderate," Pendry commiserates.

"You want to be seen, don't you Coward?"

"I..." Coward's voice is high and cracked, he looks up at Blackwood, unsure what to say. "I don't..."

"What? Aren't you proud to let them see how you're mine?"

Coward exhales deeply, forcing the air out. His head is tingling where Blackwood is stroking his hair, his skin feels over sensitive.

"Yes, my Lord."

Blackwood laughs heartily and pats him on the cheek. "Don't worry, we can both see that. Look at the mess you're making of yourself."

Colour rushes into Coward's face as Blackwood draws attention to the damp patch that's spread over the front of his shirt. His cock is still hard, still pushing vulgarly against the light chiffon.

"Would you like to take a closer look, Pendry?" Blackwood asks mildly.

Coward flinches and almost starts to protest, no, no, not him. The words are halfway out his mouth before he bites down on his tongue to stop them. When he tenses, his hole clenches around the toy plugging him up, keeping him open, making him horribly aware of his helplessness.

"Why not?" Pendry says, as if he's accepting the offer of a cigar.

"Stand up, Coward," Blackwood orders.

Heads turn as Coward rises to his feet. They're not subtle, but why would they have to be? It's clear by now that Blackwood is making some kind of point, obvious that Blackwood doesn't mind them watching. Coward is blushing so hard it's almost painful, it almost stings. He thinks of the sharp sting of an ocean spray, the salt-water smell of his own arousal is mortifyingly strong.

Cringing with embarrassment he takes a step toward Pendry, hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt in a futile attempt to hide something of himself.

"Hands at your sides, Coward," Blackwood says. "Ask Lord Pendry if he wants to touch you. Show some respect for my guest."

He braces himself on the table, the fingers of one hand skittering, trembling on the table cloth. It's very hard to keep his hands away from himself.

"Please," he swallows thickly and doesn't look Pendry in the eye. "Please, sir, would you like to, to touch me?"

Grinning from ear to ear, Pendry's hand darts out hastily and takes Coward's wrist, pulling him forward so that Coward is forced to take a stumbling step closer. His touch isn't rough, it's almost reverent, but that doesn't make it any easier to bear. Their knees bump together.

"Good Lord," Pendry says, sliding his palm across the slick, wet patch on the front of the chiffon. "He's soaking."

Blackwood makes an amused sound. "Mmm, he's a needy little thing. You can't imagine how desperate he becomes if he doesn't get fucked often enough."

"Is that right?" Pendry breathes.

He drops both his hands to Coward's legs and then gradually slides them up, fingertips creeping inch by inch as he savours the moment. They drag along the sweat damp skin of his inner thighs and Coward shakes, his eyelashes fluttering in a panic as Pendry reaches around to cup his arse.

"What..." Pendry begins as his fingers stroke inquisitively between his cheeks and find the base of the plug. Coward's stomach clenches, he stares straight ahead.

"I like to keep something inside him," Blackwood explains nonchalantly. "It reminds him what he's for."

Pendry twists the end of the toy, pushing it further inside him and Coward jerks. He can't helping moaning out loud and Pendry laughs, then does it again, taps his fingers roughly against the base so that Coward can feel the vibration deep inside him. It makes him shiver and his cock twitches, spilling more fluid out onto his shirt.

"Little tart," Pendry says and then, a moment later, clearly to Blackwood. "Sorry."

"Oh no you're quite right. That's one of the reasons I'd never let him out alone. You have to lock away your pets when they're in heat, don't you? They'd let anything climb on top."

Coward gasps and turns, even though Pendry's hands are still crawling all over him. "My Lord, I would never!"

Blackwood considers him coldly, then clicks his fingers. "Well, enough for now, Pendry. Sit down Coward."

When the food arrives, Blackwood feeds him from his hand. Every so often picking up a morsel of food and allowing Coward to take it from his fingers, letting him lick them clean when he's done. Coward finds himself making little mewling sounds, whimpers of gratitude as he suckles. Blackwood permits him to rest his head against his knee, to cling to his one point of comfort here.

This is how he eats when Blackwood takes his meals at home. When Coward has been good. He cherishes those moments, the closest thing to tender Blackwood ever is any more. If he's being punished or Blackwood is in a foul mood, then he has a dish on the floor, hands tied behind his back, or nothing at all.

He's lapping at Blackwood's palm when dessert comes. Blackwood wipes his hand on Coward's cheek and then prompts him over to Pendry's side of the table. Tells him to crawl.

It's Eton Mess and Pendry takes great delight in smearing the cream around his mouth, making him chase after strawberries and suck them shiny before he's allowed to take a bite. Makes him sit with his mouth wide open and his tongue hanging out like a dog to catch what falls from his spoon.

If he misses, he has to lick the dessert up from the floor, his shirt riding up as he bends to the task.

Once the meal is over, Blackwood asks Pendry if he'd like to join him upstairs for a brandy and Coward can't help it, he turns back round, keeping his voice as low as his eyes.

"Please, my Lord. May we go home?" he asks, meekly.

He's hoping, his jaw tight, his eyebrows furrowed, hoping so hard that you can see it in every tense line of his body. It's a terrible, awful idea to ask but he hopes that Blackwood might see that he's learned his lesson here, that there's no _need_ for this to continue. He looks upward, his lips pressed together but still trembling. Can't Blackwood see how close he is to breaking? Blackwood can't want that, _can't_ , not for Coward to break like he's just another one of his toys. Coward is special, is set above them.

Blackwood pushes his chair back and stands.

"Ask if any other members of the council would like to join you," he says to Pendry. "Then meet us up there."

"No," Coward whispers. "Please can't we-"

"Come along, Coward."

-

The club room upstairs is smaller, more cosy than the dining room. It's lit with gentle, subdued lamps that lend a warm glow to the leather of the chairs. A fire is roaring cheerfully on the hearth.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Blackwood strikes Coward hard across the face.

"You do _not_ question me like that in public."

Coward inhales, shocked and shrinks into himself.

"I'm sorry."

Blackwood rolls his shoulders, shaking his head impatiently and then lays his palm lightly against the hand print blossoming pink on Cowards cheek. Coward trembles, expecting another blow. His eyes are wide and imploring and he wonders if he can make them wide enough to find a way out of this.

Tutting, Blackwood raises his other hand to cage Coward's face between his long, pitiless fingers.

"Why do you make me do these things, Coward?"

Coward makes a little hiccuping noise. He blinks, his eyes still searching Blackwood's face for something, _anything_ but it's getting hard to see past the tears springing up in his eyes. The world is falling out of focus, turning into something shimmering and soft and unreal.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll do better," he says.

Blackwood takes a few measured steps forward, pushing him back until his shoulders are pressed hard against the wall. He looks down at Coward for a long moment, bigger than the world and then takes the unkempt collar of his shirt between thumb and forefinger.

"Why do I do them?" he asks, running his fingers up and down the material he's taken hold of.

Coward feels, with horror, an almost irresistible urge to turn the question back on Blackwood. _Why_ do _you do them, Henry?_ But that's not the answer. That's madness.

"Because I need it," Coward says softly and Blackwood draws in a long, slow breath, as though he's trying to restrain himself.

"And?"

"Because you love me."

"Good boy," Blackwood says, carefully articulating each word like an adult humouring a child.

There's a knock on the door and in the second before it opens, Coward puts his hand over Blackwood's heart.

"I've only ever wanted to make you happy, Henry," he says, a fragile smile wavering on his lips.

Blackwood stalls slightly and frowns. Coward looks straight at him and tries to see past the slabs of dark jade that have blocked off the path to Henry's soul and for an instant, the shadow of an instant, he thinks he does see something. And although the last thing he spots, slithering through the shadows is frightening and brutal and seems to give the lie to the idea that this man feels anything tender at all, the first thing was _concern_.

But then it's gone.

Pendry enters, followed by five other men. All members of the new government as far as Coward knows. He has been out of that particular loop for quite some time now. These are faces he remembers from before though. The ones who came over to Blackwood's side the soonest, who gave their oaths and made their vows and helped to slaughter the meat for sacrifice.

They are men who share Blackwood's predilections for, well, Coward would be hesitant to say for other men. For control, for power, for suffering.

He always thought them rather dim. Useful, like the ceremonial knives, but not much more than that. Yes, they _are_ tools, he realizes as they pull him apart with their greedy eyes and now they're to be put to use on _him_.

Blackwood takes Coward by the arm and leads him over to a chair in front of the fire, sitting and pulling him down onto his lap.

"Gentlemen," he says.

There's a tension in the air. Blackwood is holding them by invisible chains, these bulldogs. The know it's feeding time and they shift, restlessly. No one else moves to sit.

"Drinks?" Blackwood suggests.

Pendry pours Blackwood a brandy and brings it over, bowing his head with the same servile air as the maître d. They've slipped into the pattern of ritual here, the others waiting on Blackwood's word, silent and deferential. Blackwood takes a sip and sighs, looks around at the hungry men with satisfaction.

He sets the brandy down and then slides his cool fingers under Coward's shirt, closing his hand around Coward's cock. Coward wriggles on his lap as Blackwood strokes him, biting his lip to keep from groaning.

When Blackwood brings his hand back out, it shines in the firelight. He holds his fingers up in front of Coward's face, sticky strands of precome hanging between them and Coward tries to flinch away but Blackwood's grip around his waist is like iron.

"Now this is why you should stay at the house, Coward," Blackwood says, pushing his soiled fingers into Coward's mouth. "Look at the state of you."

Coward gags a little as Blackwood's fingers stroke the back of his tongue, he lets them sit there, his mouth slack. He's still squirming in Blackwood's embrace, his cock throbbing, he can't help it.

"Suck," Blackwood says, rolling his fingers around Coward's mouth. "Look at them."

Coward's eyes flit from one face to the other, hoping if his gaze doesn't settle then he'll see nothing. Instead his clever mind composes a collage of contempt and derision and lust for him, stitched from glimpses of wrinkled noses and curled lips, tongues flicking over teeth and narrowed eyes. How does the fire cast such a comforting glow on the bookcases, the gilded lettering on the spines of books, yet turn these men from dogs to wolves?

His groans of distress are muffled around the fingers in his mouth. His body curls in toward Blackwood, desperately stroking the lapel of his coat because he doesn't dare try to clutch on. The world tips suddenly. Coward goes sprawling onto the floor as Blackwood pushes him off his lap.

"Do you want something, Coward?" Blackwood asks.

Coward pushes himself up onto all fours, his knees smarting from the impact. Panic and arousal have disorientated him and he has to spread his fingers wide to keep himself from toppling over.

"He wants to be fucked," someone says.

The warm air from the fire crackles over the hairs on the backs of his legs. The muscles in his thighs tense at the sound of that word, _fucked_ , tremble at the malice in it. It's a quiver that travels up into his stomach and makes his cock jump, his knees slide further apart reflexively.

"Is he right, Coward?" Blackwood asks.

Coward turns his head, his hair falling across his eyes and half blind, shaking, he looks up at Blackwood.

"Fuck me?" he asks, uncertain.

His teeth worry his bottom lip, delicately. He wants Blackwood to scoop him up and kiss him, put his mark there. It feels like the firelight is pooling at the base of his spine as he arches his back under Blackwood's gaze. There's a murmur of laughter, not from Blackwood, that stirs through the room like a breeze. Coward hears someone mutter, _shameless_ , hears someone mutter, _slut_. Hissing embers of words, but Blackwood's regard remains utterly cool.

"In front of them?" Blackwood pretends to be surprised, smiles nastily. "You _are_ a dirty boy, aren't you? No, I don't think I will. Let's see you on your back."

Coward rolls over, his heart knocking against his ribcage. Blackwood's foot is next to his left ear and he turns his face toward it, nuzzling against the leather. He suffers for every inch of his bare skin as it prickles against the carpet.

"Knees up, Coward. Spread those pretty legs of yours," Blackwood commands.

Coward has to pull the nightshirt up to do it. The fabric clings to his cock as he peels it over his stomach and he moans at the sensation, the small of his back jerking up from the floor. His hands twist in the chiffon and the sound of those little fibres beginning to tear is like the sound of his dignity being ripped away.

As he raises his knees and shuffles his feet apart, there's a collected intake of breath. He's blushing, oh god, probably right down to where they're all staring. His skin feels so hot, aching as he exposes himself.

"I want you to fuck yourself," Blackwood says.

The hem of the shirt tears between Coward's hands.

"Now, Coward," Blackwood says. "We can all see how much you want it."

Coward shakes his head in a tiny, wretched tremor of denial, as if he can disown the red flush of his cock. He's still shaking his head as he reaches down between his legs and he hates it, hates it but he wants to please Blackwood so badly, wants to be _good_. His fingers are weak, unsteady with adrenaline and they seem to slip forever on the wood before he can get a grip.

The men have fallen quiet, Coward used to command such rapt audiences in Parliament but their attention was never this keen, never so covetous. He shudders as he pulls the toy out, flinches at the wet, filthy sound of it. He knows they're all staring, watching the way his hole stretches around the widest part, pink and gleaming.

It's not meant for use like this, too tapered and as he fucks himself he keeps pushing it in too far so that his hole closes around the narrow neck and then he has to tug it out again, shivering and sweating.

"Wait, leave it out," Pendry interrupts suddenly, eager, excited.

Forgetting himself surely, Coward thinks and waits for Blackwood to rebuke him for giving out orders, but no such correction comes. With a half sob, Coward pulls the plug out entirely and lies there, his chest heaving. He feels so open, _is_ so open and they can all _see_. His hole twitches and Pendry snorts, someone else curses.

Blackwood allows them to come forward and put their fingers inside him. They laugh, seeing how many they can push in at once, how far he will stretch. Pendry crows and pinches at the tender rim of his hole, tells him he makes a good cunt and Coward quakes and screws his eyes up tight but his cock is still hard against his stomach. He tries to catch Henry's scent on the cuff of his pants leg, some small bit of solace, but he can only smell shoe polish.

"He likes it," someone, Lindsay maybe, says.

He sounds half wondering, half appalled and Coward groans covering his face with one hand. He doesn't know how many fingers are inside him. Half his back is off the floor, his heels stuttering across the carpet. There are hands on his knees, pushing his legs up, keeping them spread wide.

They won't stop, Blackwood isn't telling them to stop and Coward knocks his head against the floor, keening. His hips rock back against their hands, the thick, vile fingers that are curling inside him and rubbing against him, making him pant and pray, _not like this, no, no, not that_.

"Oh my God," someone says. "Is he..."

Coward bites down on his wrist, trying to stuff up his mouth so his moans won't escape but it's not enough to block the high, thready cries that catch in his throat. He shudders violently, clenching around their fingers, coming all over himself and it's horribly intense, leaving him wrecked and over sensitive, his cock still desperate for touch as the orgasm is wrung mercilessly from his body.

"I don't believe it," Pendry says.

There's shocked laughter from some, murmurs of appreciation from others. When they release him, one of Coward's legs falls to the side limp and he lies there splintered, flooded with shame.

Blackwood claps his hands together, part applause and part dismissal.

"Pendry, I need to talk to you," he says, rising from his chair.

Coward pushes himself back up onto his knees with weak, hasty limbs and turns toward Blackwood, pulling his shirt tight around him. The urge to cover himself up is so strong he tries to hide behind the disarray of his hair as Blackwood places two fingers under his chin and tips his face up.

"Gentlemen?" Blackwood looks at the other five men as he presses his thumb against Coward's bottom lip."Please make use of Lord Coward's mouth. I rather think he needs to learn when to open it."

Coward stares after Blackwood as he and Pendry remove themselves to the other side of the room, blinking, lost. He licks over the little indent left behind by Blackwood's thumbnail and his hand rises of its own accord, reaching out toward his Lord's departing back.

As his fingers stretch out futilely in the air, time seems to slow itself to a crawl. Henry turning away, walking away for a lifetime's worth of heartbeats and Coward's heart is beating in his chest so very fast it feels as if it could be true. A hollow sense of dread floats up inside him like something bloated and lily white and _wrong_ bobbing against the banks of the Thames.

Fingers snap in front of his eyes and he's yanked back round to face the fire. To face _them_.

Lindsay already has his cock out. Coward blinks. Deliriously, all he can think of is how bad Lindsay is at cards, how he used to beat the man almost every time they played and what a sore loser he was about it. His face would turn the most remarkable shade of puce. The same shade his cock is now really. Coward's mouth twitches and he can feel laughter bubbling up inside of him but for some reason when it gets to his throat it turns into a sob.

There are hands on him then. Lindsay slaps his cock against Coward's face, once, twice and Coward flinches away. Distantly, he can hear himself groaning, the kind of sound metal makes just before it gives way. The muscles at his jaw are all bunched up and even though he knows he has to open his mouth, that it was Blackwood's order, it's hard. He can barely bring himself to breath as Lindsay runs the head of his cock over his mouth, can't stand to be contaminated by the musk of this man's arousal.

"Come on, _boy_ ," Lindsay smirks.

As soon as his teeth begin to part, Lindsay is forcing his finger past them and wedging them at the back of his mouth. His first thrust is savage and Coward leans back, almost _falls_ back before Lindsay whistles for help and someone is cradling the back of his head, holding him in place.

They take turns fucking his mouth. Some of them try to make him gag, shoving themselves hard down his throat. By the time the second man has finished with him, Coward is swaying a little where he's kneeling. His mouth stays hanging open, spit and come streaked down his chin.

They don't seem to care what he does, hooking fingers into his mouth, wiping their cocks clean in his hair or using the nightshirt which clings to him now, foul with sweat and come and the cream that Pendry had spilt over him at dinner. Someone comes on his face then rubs it into his skin and Coward, dazed, tries to suck at the fingers when they pass across his mouth.

He's not sure when it stops, doesn't know how long he sits there, gasping, swallowing over and over again against the taste thick in his mouth. The only thing that matters is that no one stops him when he slumps forward, arms around his chest. No one slaps him, tears out a fistful of his hair, when he collapses onto his side and curls into himself.

He shivers in front of the fire, eyes open but unseeing.

"Coward?"

Blackwood steps between him and the hearth, blocking the warmth. Coward drags himself up and crawls forward, putting his head down on the floor between his shoes.

"Please, please, please..." he sobs.

Blackwood crouches down and touches his shoulder and Coward can't stop weeping, can't stop begging _please_ even though he's not sure what he's even begging for. Blackwood has stripped the words for what he wants so thoroughly from his vocabulary he shies away from them now.

"Would you like to go home now?" Blackwood asks.

"Yes, please, yes. Thank you, thank you, my Lord."

"Are you sure you don't still feel, what was it? Confined?"

Coward shudders and shakes his head, eyes fixed on the ground. The guilt of his ingratitude weighs down his gaze. He's so dirty now, sticky and covered in the slime of those men. The shirt is ruined. It's fitting though, he doesn't deserve to wear that kind of white.

"No, no, I'm sorry," his voice is hoarse. "Please, I'll never. Oh, I'm so sorry, my Lord."

"If you're sure," Blackwood says.

Coward feels his soul flutter, glances up and finds Blackwood smiling at him.

It's like the sun.

An answering smile spreads itself across Coward's mouth, fierce and trembling. He touches the hem of Blackwood's trousers, _needs_ to touch him and tries to lean forward for a kiss.

Blackwood laughs, derisive. His gaze flicks with obvious distaste over the obscene mess of Coward's mouth. "Don't be disgusting."

Coward flinches but then Blackwood stands and picks up the bottle of brandy.

"Here," he says, tugging Coward's face upward by his hair.

He presses the rim of the bottle to Coward's swollen lips and Coward takes a mouthful, the burn warm and welcome as it slips down his throat. Blackwood keeps pouring though, until Coward chokes, until he can't swallow fast enough to stop it running out the sides of his mouth. Blackwood raises the bottle and brandy streams over him, slicking his hair back from his face.

He's coughing and spluttering and still struggling for breath when Blackwood pulls him up by his collar and kisses him. A more thorough invasion than anything those men could ever have done to him.

-

Coward would give Blackwood anything.

Blackwood says the past is a dangerous thing and Coward would make a present of the past to him if he only knew how. He'd wrap it up in a bow for it to be remade however Blackwood desired it to be remade. Coward wishes he could forget, he'd be _better_ if he could forget.

But the memories always creep back in to make a traitor out of him.

He misses the dinners together, misses the way Henry would reach across the table to hold his hand. The way Henry listened to him and the gentle way he'd place his hands on his face when they kissed.

He remembers the first time they made love. How Henry looked younger naked, when he was stripped out of his powerful clothes, his hair still damp from bathing, unstyled and the scent of cologne washed from his skin. When he touched Coward there had been a glint of something lost in his gaze, as if he almost didn't understand what he was touching. As if he  _wanted_...

The thought loses itself as Coward tries to untangle it, he hadn't been able to figure it out then and there's no hope for it now. Blackwood's guard is never lowered.

It fills him with an unnameable panic sometimes, as if there's something he could have done, something he _should_ be doing for Blackwood, that he's not. That special something that would stop him from slipping away, falling through his embrace.

But it's silly. Blackwood must still love him. Still want him. No, there's no way he'd let him go, is there? It doesn't matter what else has changed, he still gets upset (angry, furious, enraged) if Coward's not there when he's wanted. He still kisses Coward and is it so important if there are more teeth in those kisses than there used to be? He still holds him and if Coward has more bruises, well it's just Blackwood's passion getting the better of him.

And Coward knows that Blackwood's use of him is right. He knows it in the depth of his soul, in the slippery, luminous chain that's coiled around his heart.

Sometimes Blackwood comes home smelling of women. He remembers that too, the first time that Henry hit him. That argument. But Blackwood needs an heir of course and Coward can't give him that. _Just because you spread your legs like a woman, doesn't mean you_ are _one, Coward._

And if Henry's growing inhumanity is what leads him away, then it's also his inhumanity that Coward thinks of most often when he touches himself.

In his sterile bedroom he stares at the ceiling and tries to kindle himself with the good memories, the sweet ones. Gifts left under his pillow, trips to the theatre, the way Henry used to whisper ridiculous endearments in his ear just to see him blush.

But the ceiling is so white, so blank and his mind draws different patterns there. Spirals of fear all tangled up with desire. A fist wound tightly in his hair, used as a handle to direct his mouth. Blackwood baring his teeth, hands around his neck that tighten until his vision swims. Being thrown, being pulled, pushed down, then tossed to one side. No suffering, no indignity that doesn't end in helpless climax.

Coward opens the vanity drawer and pulls out one of the picture frames the maid put away. The photo isn't faded at all. Blackwood has his arms around him. They're both smiling. His gaze skips over the photo to his hand and the small, yellow bruise on his wrist.

He waits for Blackwood to come home.


End file.
